


Bless This Water, Curse This Flame

by elwinglyre



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel/Demon Sex, Angst, Crowley comforts Aziraphale, Dancing Demon and Angel, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Good Omens Big Bang, Holy Water, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Poor Aziraphale’s wings..., Save Me, Sex over the Bookshop and into the sky!, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22228246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: “What’s it like to know your love is more dangerous than Holy Water?” That's the question posed to Crowley. After demons nail poor Aziraphale by his wings above Crowley's door, what can he do but walk away to keep his friend safe? Crowley decides there must be a way to be together. Despite the danger, neither of them can let go of their friendship. With both Heaven and Hell against them, Crowley enlists Aziraphale’s help with a plan. How will they harness the power of love and break the curse?Written for The Good Omens Big Bang 2019.-----Much, much more than a beta, thank you to the amazing kongerikit-noregur, who also helped with the creative process in this story. Together we bantered about ideas on wings (bird are her keen interest and field of study).Also thank you to sosobriquet, who beta’d as second pair of eyes on the opening chapters.Art created for this story by the illustrious Bea Fox, whose two illustrations below are from two perspectives in the opening scene in the story: one through the readers' eyes and the other through Crowley’s.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 119
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019, Hurt Aziraphale





	1. The Curse

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s Bea Fox’s (goodomensislife on Tumblr/Beauty Fox on Discord) incredible illustrations done for the Good Omen’s Big Bang. She even included the note nailed about pour Aziraphale’s head and his hat, tossed off, on the floor.
> 
> [](https://imgur.com/XtuvjRe)  
>   
> Image by Bea Fox for this story. 
> 
>   
> Image by Bea Fox of how this looked through Crowley’s eyes.
> 
> For more on the wings, see end notes for chapter one. There’s added info on how Kongerikit and I wanted their wings to represent the culture, myths, and legends connected owls and ravens.

_September, 1860_

Even as he stepped through the dense London fog and closer to the front door of his lodging house, Crowley tasted the aftermath. The sulphur. But he also saw it. The door was unlatched.

The landlady, Mrs. Hooper, would never allow that to happen. The woman obsessively nagged Crowley and her four other tenants to keep it locked tight. 

“Too many hooligans about on the streets,” she scolded them. 

When he’d moved in, Crowley had put his own little spell on the door to keep it shut. Not to help her, mind you. More to keep riff-raff out of his belongings. Too many secrets within.

It also shut her the Hell up. 

His day had been boring and, with his door ajar, he welcomed a little excitement. His talents as the demon of Earthly Temptations and Small Inconveniences had been thoroughly wasted of late. He’d love to catch some thief and hang him up by his thumbs over Mrs. Hooper’s doorway as a warning to others. He fancied that his landlady would appreciate the gesture. 

With the main entrance left ajar, he caught a whiff of the sweet, coppery smell of blood as he stepped closer. Before he’d even set foot inside, the heat hit him like a concussion, and his demon heart hammered as he stumbled back from the blow. 

Passing through the door, his eyes narrowed as he looked up. 

The noisy wooden steps that always creaked and hissed when anyone climbed them were deathly silent. No one about, then. Crowley liked that about the stairs—that they spoke to him. He also liked how the stairway wound up and around like a serpent. This slithering motion was one of the reasons why he rented the room at the top of the stairs in Mrs. Hooper’s lodging house.

There was no movement he could see, but he _felt_ the remnants—the dark shadows left behind, the aftertaste of brimstone on his tongue and the crushing heat generated only by the furnaces of Hell, along with the warning of rotten smell of sulphur filling the corridor. He cautiously made his way to the stairway. 

Standing at the foot of the steep, winding steps, the thick railings hid what was above in the darkness of the stairwell. Little was revealed to the human eye, but Crowley’s eyes weren’t human. They detected residual aura of heat, a hint of demon lingering in the stairwell. But it was the hint of smoulder landing on his tongue that had him sprinting up the stairs. Not the taste of brimstone, but singed feathers. 

Silent no more, the stairs groaned and shouted as Crowley raced up them. Over the cacophony, Crowley heard the hollow beating of wings against wood. And a long, agonized moan. 

Crowley gasped, then shouted, _“Aziraphale_!”

He took the steps three and four at a time, frantically grasping the banister as he bounded forward and up the curved stairway. A loud thump echoed down. As he raced up, Crowley’s feet barely touched the stairs. His eyes strained to detect motion, heat, _anything_. 

He heard the beating and a loud thump again. A white downy feather tipped in red floated over his head.

“ _Aziraphale_!”

Still no answer, only moaning. Finally, he could see the throbbing heat radiating through the rungs of the stairs. It was a sight that would never leave him: in front of Crowley’s door, Aziraphale’s feet dangled. They were a foot above the floor, suspended in the air. He heard the thud again, as the angel’s heel hit the door. 

Crowley rushed around the final bend of the stairs to see Aziraphale not hanging, not suspended. No. _Nailed_ . _Nailed by his wings to the doorway._

Crowley struggled not to break into pieces where he stood. He became ice for a second as he shivered in horror, frozen at the top of the stairs. Fearing for his friend, he gasped and stumbled toward him. _Yes, his friend_. He’d never say those words aloud, but they were friends. He shook off his fears and forced himself to be strong for Aziraphale.

Three agonizing strides took him to the door. Aziraphale raised his hands to keep Crowley away, then covered his face in horror and shame. Crowley tenderly cupped Aziraphale’s bowed head as the angel moaned and removed his hands. His eyes were cloudy as they fluttered open to meet Crowley’s. It took a few moments before the light of recognition filled the angel’s eyes along with a burst of tears.

“Why?” was all Crowley could choke out. He took hold of Aziraphale by the waist to keep the weight of the angel’s body from further damaging his wings. “How?”

“There were too many,” gasped Aziraphale.

He wondered why Aziraphale was even here. He’d never come to his room at the lodging house before. Or had someone lured him here in order to leave this warning?

“Who?” Crowley’s voice echoed down the stairwell. 

“I only knew Hastur.”

The floor beneath him was stained crimson—most of the blood was from Aziraphale’s wings, beaten and tattered red—but Crowley was certain it wasn’t all his. He’d put up a fight. The spattering of red and black blood on the walls attested to that, alongside shattered glass from a broken bottle of wine, along with Aziraphale’s hat. 

“I was going to surprise you,” Aziraphale said weakly. 

Crowley held him tight, supporting him. He tipped his head up to see a note nailed above Aziraphale’s head. The sour churning inside him welled up as he noticed it was written in blood. Aziraphale’s blood. 

Aziraphale saw where Crowley’s eyes were fixed. He shook his head and wept on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“I’ll get you down,” Crowley said. “I’ll try my best not to let it hurt you any more than you have already.” The demon carefully willed the nails out, easing them as painlessly as possible from between the fine bones in his wings, then he softly lowered Aziraphale into his arms. He delicately carried his friend inside his room, mentally checking for damage as he did. 

What had Hastur and the other demons been thinking, attacking an angel?

Aziraphale lay limp in his arms. Crowley inched carefully into his sitting room, trying his best not to jostle the angel too much. His wings dragged listlessly along the floor. As Crowley brushed his hair from the angel’s forehead, the sight of one long jagged scratch down his face made Crowley’s insides tighten. 

Crowley pushed the marble-top coffee table aside with his foot and began to ease Aziraphale onto his creamy-white Chesterfield sofa.

“No! I’ll get blood all over it,” Aziraphale objected.

“You think that matters to me?” Crowley cried out. “Your wings…” 

“Oh, it’s nothing too serious. Just a little ruffling of my feathers,” Aziraphale said. “Put me down on your sofa. I’ll miracle the stains away later.” It was a poor attempt at humor, but Crowley smiled weakly down at him nonetheless. He was starting to get a bit heavy. That Aziraphale could joke about this said so much about his friend. He had taken much more damage that what was immediately visible. 

He bent down with the angel still cradled in his arms and tenderly unfolded Aziraphale down onto the sofa. 

_His wings._

Crowley wiped his own forehead before he reverently draped one of Aziraphale’s wings over the top of the white sofa. He settled the other gently across his coffee table. Even scorched and bloody, they still shimmered. While he was slow and careful, it was achingly evident to Crowley that Aziraphale was holding back how much it truly pained him.

Crowley had seen the angel’s majestic wings many times over the millennia, but he’d never touched them. Not like this. He wished it was under other, better circumstances. Crowley could see where the demons’ hands hand twisted and pulled at Aziraphale’s wings as they’d wrenched them above him and nailed him like some insect over his door. 

In the struggle, many of his primary feathers had become twisted and torn out. Secondary feathers had become singed from brimstone. His owl-white feathers were covered in soot. This soot and blood stained the sofa, but it didn’t matter. Aziraphale was suffering. It ripped Crowley to his core to see the lines deepen in the angel’s face as he grimaced. He tried so hard to hide his pain. He tried to retract his wings— but he could not, damaged as they were.

Crowley almost said it, that this was his fault. But he knew what Aziraphale would say in return, so he let the blame fester inside him and held it close. They were watching his room at Mrs. Hooper’s lodging house. They saw Aziraphale and pounced. This was really about him. He should have stayed far away from Aziraphale. Even as he cared for the angel’s wings, he knew he _shouldn’t_ be doing it, but he couldn’t leave Aziraphale—not like this. 

“It’s no one’s fault,” Aziraphale said. “It’s not your fault that the forces of evil are everywhere.”

“Next you’re going to say that it’s all part of the grand plan and that it’s ineffable.”

Even distorted in misery and horrendously battered, Crowley marveled at the wings’ magnificence. Wings captured the essence of each angel, fallen or otherwise. Aziraphale’s wings were like no other angel. Not the swan wings of Gabriel nor the hawk-like wings of Michael. Nothing like Crowley’s damned raven wings. Aziraphale’s unique wings were that of an owl, capable of the silent whisper of flight and blending into the surroundings. That he could hear them at all was proof of the damage done.

“May I touch them?” Crowley asked. He knelt down in front of the sofa.

Aziraphale nodded. 

Crowley’s hands turned and straightened the twisted feathers. 

“It’s quite alright, Crowley. No need to do that.” But even as Aziraphale said it, his wing shuddered under Crowley’s touch, but not with fear or pain. 

And oh, they were soft. Satin-soft. As Crowley tended to them, he shook with anger at what the demons had done, yet he willed his hands to remain steady, his fingers light. 

Crowley ignored the angel’s mild protests that his ministrations were unnecessary, that Aziraphale could tend to them himself. Crowley ignored him and continued preening the angel’s wings. He even licked feathers into place with his demon tongue. 

Aziraphale groaned appreciatively. “Thank you, dear boy. I really don’t know what to say.”

“I do. Tell me exactly what he said to you. This is horrendous, even for Hastur,” Crowley said.

“He taunted me. Called me all sorts of foul names. He said I was disobedient and that my suit was ugly. Do you think it is? I rather like it. Also he said something about fornicating? I don’t fornicate! He said all I needed to know was in that horrible note nailed above my head.”

 _Above his head_ , Crowley thought as he stood up. He gait was stilted as he walked back through the doorway. He hated doing this. He stretched up and reached to rip the offending note down. At a glance he knew the handwriting wasn’t Hastur’s scrawl. In fact, he didn’t recognize it at all. As he read, dread filled him: “Consider this your warning. You may masquerade as an angel of light, but you will never become One. Stay away.” 

With one fierce swipe of his hand, Crowley flung the door from its hinges and turned it to ash. He couldn’t bear the reminder. He burned the walls, floors, every bit of evidence. 

(Later he would have the entire vestibule remodeled and painted sky blue. He didn’t want the reminder. And Mrs. Hooper would have been highly disturbed [more so than she normally was]).

He had to do it, for all he saw when he looked at his entryway was Aziraphale nailed up by his wings. How could they do such a thing? Treated him as if he were a bug to be pinned to board? No, _worse_! They’d crucified him! Driven nails through his beautiful wings. It was blasphemy.

While cryptic, Crowley knew the purpose of the note. He went back inside and helped Aziraphale into bed to rest. 

He made a place for himself on the tainted sofa, although he slept little that night, thinking about the note and what it meant. His very presence in Crowley’s room put Aziraphale in danger. Being friends was doing the wrong thing, but in doing the wrong thing, he was doing the right-wrong thing, which made him right. He was a demon. He shouldn’t be doing the right-wrong thing. And Aziraphale by spending time with Crowley was doing the wrong-right thing. 

That was it. It had to be. A demon and angel should not spend so much time together or do each other favours. He’d have to remedy that. But first he had to take care to make sure Aziraphale healed. After, he could take the angel someplace safe, away from him. Away from London. 

___________________

The healing had been painful. But far more painful for Aziraphale was to witness his dear friend distraught over what had happened to him. To say the whole experience had been a fright was a profound understatement. He couldn’t forget the clawing at him, the burning, and the agony he felt when they drove the nails through his wings. 

He’d kept so much of what happened to himself, not wanting to upset or infuriate Crowley any further. It haunted Aziraphale, true, but he only needed to glance at Crowley to know it plagued him like some human disease. The demon vacillated between pacing the room empty-eyed and tearing his hair out. 

He always knew that their arrangement over the centuries would come back to bite him. Doing the good and the wicked for each other wasn’t what an angel should do, even if it was much more efficient. If this was anyone’s fault, it was _his_. He was an angel, he ought to have known better. Crowley was only doing what he did best, tempting him.

“It’s not your fault, and don’t think that for one moment,” Aziraphale had told his friend. But it made no difference. Aziraphale could tell that Crowley continued to blame himself. 

Crowley truly was a bad demon, for he had a good conscience. 

Over the next few days, he’d heal, but not Crowley. The demon spiralled further into a pit of despair. He’d yanked at his long hair, making it stick out about his head like flames. He’d stomped and paced about the room, scorching a path into the floor. He’d flung the windows open, screaming profanity out them until his face turned red. (Fortunately, it was in Latin.)

If he couldn’t blame himself, he’d blame the world.

Poor Mrs. Hooper, who was one of the most stiff upper-lipped women Aziraphale had ever encountered, had suddenly become absolutely terrified of Crowley. Aziraphale couldn’t blame her. She used to bring baked goods and tea, but now she rarely made an appearance. Whenever she sheepishly came to collect the rent, Crowley barged into the woman’s space and hissed in her face. Aziraphale intervened, but there was only so much one could do and continue to keep his wings hidden. He really didn’t need her to see them and so kept himself covered with a large quilt. 

“Never mind him,” Aziraphale had called from Crowley’s new floral couch. “He’s been out of sorts.”

The poor woman was in tears, as Crowley could be rather scary when he hissed. Setting fire to the old sofa yesterday in the back garden, then cursing Hastur at the top of his lungs into the London fog didn’t help. 

He knew the longer he spent in Crowley’s company, the more danger he put his friend in. He had to leave.

\-------------

The fog had lifted. Crowley was making tea since Mrs. Hooper hadn’t (or wouldn’t). Aziraphale was standing in the middle of Crowley’s sitting room when he was finally able to extend his wings fully. 

The tea tray Crowley was carrying crashed to the floor. 

His eyes dropped to Crowley’s feet where the tea pooled around them on the floor, the jasmine leaves floating about the broken bits of china. It seemed like an omen.

“Dear, dear. I think you’ve broken the pot,” said Aziraphale. 

“Never mind the pot!” said Crowley excitedly. “Your wings! How do they feel?”

“Truthfully, they ache, but they feel so much better. Thank you. Thank you for everything you’ve done. Opening your home...”

“I...no...I haven’t done anything except cause this…your pain.”

“No. Don’t think such things! You’re not to blame for what happened.”

“How can you say that? Look at what they did to you. They nailed you across _my_ door.”

“No lasting damage, as you can see.” Aziraphale spread his wings out behind him with a shiver. “Although I can’t say the same for your door.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? You’re shaking.”

“What do they say? It feels wonderful to be able to spread my wings again.”

Too wonderful, Aziraphale thought. It felt too wonderful being with him here. Too comfortable. _They way he’s watching my wings, it hurts._ If he didn’t leave soon, Crowley would never want him to go. That could never be allowed to happen. No matter what happened to him, the damage would be nothing compared to what they would do to Crowley. They could destroy him. 

_No,_ Aziraphale thought. _I deserve this. I’ve gotten far too close. What Heaven or Hell could do me was nothing compared to the eternal torment they could inflict upon Crowley. If Hell found out just how close, well, Crowley would be paying with..._ The realization caused the angel to cover his mouth with his hands in horror. _There would be no more Crowley._

Aziraphale knew he could never let that happen. Beyond his corporeal form, that was the one pain Aziraphale would never survive.

That was why he had to disappear.

They wouldn’t see each other again for two years. 

———————————

Crowley woke from his nap on his new fainting couch. A simple floral pattern instead of the cream. It wasn’t something he’d pick, but he’d needed one. 

He could have simply miracled the blood stains out of his old comfy Chesterfield, but like the door, it reminded him too much of Aziraphale and his pain. He’d rather suffer a few minor pangs of back pain from this hard sofa than the sharp stabs to his heart he’d feel remembering Aziraphale lying—broken, bruised, and bloody—on it.

The room at the boarding house was quiet. He should be grateful for the solitude. Aziraphale was safe. Crowley rubbed his eyes. Safe and far from here. The room was lonely without the angel lighting up his sitting room, no angel sleeping in his bed—another place he refused to return to for missing him. 

He missed his silly jokes and his convoluted magic tricks. It mattered little that they were meant to be hereditary enemies. Over the centuries they’d formed a bond. 

How did he ever become so attached? Was it Aziraphale’s giddy laugh, his hiccups when drinking wine? From his carelessly misplaced halo (left in his second-best jacket), to giving away his flaming sword, Crowley’s hard heart softened with every action. He knew how he felt. He knew the day would come when he’d have to say it aloud. To name it. 

Someday, maybe, there could be a way. 

He knew Aziraphale wanted it too, in his own way, but that he was far too afraid of what might happen. He worried that he was always being watched. It was the “omnipotent God” thing. With Satan, it wasn’t so much of a problem as Crowley doubted the Dark Lord would pay much mind to anyone as inconsequential as himself. It was some of the other demons, evidently, that he ought to take heed of instead. Coveting his position, most likely. Could Crowley help it if he was cleverer than the lot of them? 

Crowley had theories as to why. For the last few centuries, he’d suspected that other demons had become more and more envious of how Head Office Below loved Crowley’s work. They were planning, ganging up on Crowley; Hastur and Ligur among them. No, it was already far too dangerous for Aziraphale to be near him. Aziraphale had been too close to the truth when he said that Crowley had done the right thing in helping him. It’s never good for demons to “do the right-wrong thing.” 

Except it this instance, it wasn’t Crowley who paid for it. They’d come to hate Crowley because he knew how to appeal to Satan, and they were idiots. 

Crowley had been wrong to underestimate their jealousy and stupidity.

He couldn’t share this information with Aziraphale. The less he knew, the better. Crowley could see the angel confronting the other demons and doing that could land Aziraphale in a world of even more hurt. 

They needed a solution. 

He’d begun researching long ago, thinking this day would come. Long before the angel opened his bookshop, Crowley scoured shops, libraries, churches, and universities for reference materials. 

He still hadn’t found exactly what he needed. He’d found references to the types of spells and protections he wanted but never the actual spells themselves. Crowley was almost desperate enough to borrow some of Aziraphale’s precious books. In fact, he’d tried to. The angel had an extensive collection of books on enchantments and potions. Crowley had a choice few in his arms one afternoon, but put them back on the shelves, worried that Aziraphale would take one look and know immediately what Crowley was really searching for inside them. As a distraction, Crowey grabbed a few novels the angel had suggested he read instead. 

He didn’t fool Aziraphale. He looked down past his spectacles at _Wuthering Heights_ and _Dombey and Son_ and rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, dear boy,” he’d said. “I’ve seen the spell books lying around your flat.” 

He didn’t say the words, and Crowley wondered if Aziraphale knew what he was researching: 

_Holy Water_. 

He didn’t seem upset by it, which made him think that maybe the angel hadn’t caught on yet. He already suspected that Aziraphale would not be pleased. Why, Aziraphale should realize that this could be the solution! It had so many uses!

It cleanses: well, maybe it wouldn’t cleanse his eternal soul, but it certainly could consecrate other places all sparkly bright. 

It protects: sprinkle around some water and never again will Aziraphale have to waste ordinary miracles. It’s Miracle-Away! Just create a magic circle of protection and pesky demons begone!

And then there’s that special Ink: so good for smiting. Simply fill a pen with Holy Water and ink from sacred Chinese inkstones, and a simple spell is multiplied one-hundred-and-one fold! One can sanctify those who fall out of favour (but not too far—there are limits, as Crowley well knows). The disappearing Ink makes thoughts written down vanish from memory. Need a portal to another world? Look no further. The destinations are limitless. 

That was why Crowley needed the Holy Water. He needed options. He needed a way to save Aziraphale and himself. 

And if all else failed, it would make for one Hell of a flashy way out.


	2. The Blessing

_ September, 1862 _

Crowley hated waiting, but he loved St. James Park. He really did. He didn’t say the L word. Not ever. But he loved it all. 

He loved the pigeons, the pelicans, the ducks, and even the swans. He loved how Aziraphale always,  _ always _ fed them, reaching into a stash of breadcrumbs and flinging them out. Always so benevolent. And he ever ran out, Crowley would miracle some crumbs for the angel into his hat just to watch the happy birds and happy Aziraphale. 

Crowley also loved the long winding paths, the trees offering lazy shade, and the majestic Marble Arch. Most of all, he loved walking side-by-side with Aziraphale and looking out over the water. He longed to stand close to Aziraphale like that again. He’d missed it so much. He’d never admit it to Aziraphale, but he even loved how the sun shimmered on the angel’s lashes.

He’d picked this day to ask Aziraphale to meet. It was a nice day. The angel removed his hat and tossed out breadcrumbs for the ducks and pigeons. 

“It’s been a while,” Aziraphale said.

“Two years,” Crowley said.  _ Two years to the day since I found you nailed to my door _ , he thought.  _ Two years too long. _

“Yes. You look...well.” 

Crowley knew Aziraphale was just being kind. 

Crowley wanted to say more, so much more. He’d thought about the last time he saw Aziraphale after his wings had healed. How Aziraphale had stretched them out, white feathers glistening. His wings had spanned the room, testing the air. With a gasp, the angel had tucked them away from sight before hurrying out the door and down the winding stairs out of Crowley’s life. 

Afterward, all that was left of his friend was a lone flight-feather left on the rug. Crowley tucked it away in his breast pocket. He’d kept it with him, always, since that day. 

“I’ve been thinking. What if all goes wrong?” Crowley said. “We have a lot in common, you and me.”

“We may have started out the same, but I’m still an angel. And you’re, well, fallen.”

Aziraphale always had to bring that up. Crowley couldn’t recall the number of times he’d told him that he’d only sauntered vaguely downwards. 

“But what if...I have a favour to ask.” 

“I’ve done plenty of favours in the past, as per our arrangement. What is it that you need me to do?”

Crowley sighed. Yes, he wanted to say so much more. He patted his breast-pocket where he kept the feather, then clasped his hands in front of him. Instead, handed Aziraphale a note with two words written on it. 

“What?” Aziraphale turned to him.

“I can’t say it. Trees have ears, ducks have ears.  _ Do  _ ducks have ears?” Crowley squinted his eyes behind his glasses as he stared at the ducks bobbing up and down in the pond. “Corn has ears, but there’s no corn around here.”

Aziraphale shook his head in exasperation and lifted the corner of his mouth as he unfolded the note, but the moment his eyes scanned it, he gasped. 

“I need it, in case it all goes pear shaped,” Crowley blurted out.

“Pear shaped? You say that like pears are a bad thing. I like pears,” Aziraphale said fondly. 

“Pears are gritty and scratch the inside of my mouth.” Crowley scrunched up his nose. “It’s like eating sand. I hate sand.”

“And this,” Aziraphale continued shaking the note in front of him. “I am  _ not _ giving you this. Why would you ever think I’d give this to you? I could never...” He shook the note in Crowley’s face. He stared down at the offending words:  _ Holy Water. _

“I need it. It’s insurance.” He detested himself for pleading, but needs must. “Insurance plans are all the rage now. No fixed-annual payment. It would be a one-time thing. I only need a bit of it. You have to give to me, I need it!” 

“I don’t have to do any such thing! I will not give this to you,” He stepped closer to the pond. “What’s happened to make you think you need this? Tell me.”

“Nothing I can put my finger on, but after what happened with you and...”

Aziraphale shook his head so violently that Crowley thought he’d hurt himself. “Did they threaten you? Even so, I’m not giving you a way to destroy yourself!”

“That’s not why I need it. It’s simply a contingency plan, but, if you must know the real reason? I miss you.” 

Aziraphale slowly refolded the note and closed his eyes. His bottom lip trembled. 

“There, I said it. I miss our time together,” Crowley said. “I want it all back. I want our quiet drinks and talks. I want to walk into your bookstore and to nibble on those tiny sandwiches you love. We can do this, but I need some insurance, angel.” 

Aziraphale was staring out at the ducks, frowning. Crowley stepped closer and Aziraphale stepped back, away from Crowley. He kicked a stick near his foot into the grass. 

“I need to spend time with someone other than idiotic demons who only think about destruction and damnation,” Crowley moaned. “I’m not like them! I’ll do the job, but it’s not something I enjoy or go out of my way to do. We are more alike than different, you  _ must _ see that.” Crowley held his breath, waiting for Aziraphale’s response. But instead of being happy at Crowley’s confession, the angel eyes widened and clouded over as he crumpled the note in his hand.

“We have absolutely nothing in common. You are a demon, and I, an angel. I don’t even like you,” Aziraphale said flatly. He put his hat back on his head and pushed back his shoulders. 

“Oh, but you do!” he said, spreading his arms wide.

“Heaven would be furious if they found out I’ve been fraternizing with the enemy.” Aziraphale blinked into the sun. 

That hurt. After all this, all they’d done and been to each other, Aziraphale still thought of him as the enemy. Crowley almost left it alone, but he’d always felt that Aziraphale wanted this just as much as he did. 

“Excuse me? The enemy?!” Crowley spat out, pressing Aziraphale further. “Is that what you think of me? After all we’ve been through?” 

The angel was still blinking. It infuriated Crowley that Aziraphale didn’t seem to care enough to take a chance. Crowley liked to think his friend was blinking back tears, but he knew that couldn’t be the case. 

He leaned in closer to Aziraphale. He wanted to look into his eyes. He couldn’t believe that Aziraphale didn’t want this. “Who’s the real enemy? Do you seriously think that anyone upstairs gives a damn about you?” Crowley snarled. 

Aziraphale raised his chin in defiance as he looked Crowley directly in the eyes.

“Oh, forget it! I don’t need you!” Crowley stomped in place. Those walking nearby circled away from them in terror.

“The feeling is mutual!” Aziraphale snapped. He wadded up the note in his fist and tossed it into the pond. 

In a fit of pique, Crowley set the note on fire as Aziraphale stormed away. He had been so sure Aziraphale would choose him. He watched the note turn to ash and blow away. 

It was a nice day, but no longer.

Crowley walked through the park, intending to go in the opposite direction, but as always he turned around and followed the angel. He muttered to himself the whole way. Why did he follow? Why did he care? Damn! He’d follow, of course he’d follow. The angel always, always found trouble. Looking for a good crepe? Trouble on the way!

Crowley had had to save Aziraphale from being beheaded and disincorporated. Of course that idiot was at the Bastille. It was the most ridiculous scenario possible. Of course trouble always found Aziraphale because Aziraphale always stuck his nose into trouble. 

Why, why, why he followed Aziraphale into more trouble, Crowley didn’t know. It was church this time. Crowley found levitating along as he followed Aziraphale from stained glass window to stained glass window very vexing, but better than to step inside and get his feet burned from the consecrated grounds. He made sure no passersby saw him—no need to instigate any impromptu exorcisms. 

He floated lazily along outside from window to window as he followed Aziraphale’s journey through the church into the baptistery and up to the font. 

After everything that Aziraphale had said to him, the angel  _ was _ going to retrieve the Holy Water for him! Crowley almost whooped for joy. Yes! He’d changed his mind! 

Crowley’s eyes tracked the angel as he slowly walked up to the  font and stopped in front of it. He lowered his head as if in prayer. 

All of a sudden, Aziraphale spun around, eyes raised. At first, Crowley thought he had been spotted, but no one else was there. Aziraphale stood, breathing rapidly for some moments before he backed out of the church without the Holy Water.

Crowley sighed in disappointment. He’d almost done it. Almost. 

Without much enthusiasm, Crowley shadowed the angel back to the bookstore. He thought of taking the risk and following him inside, possibly even speaking to him again. But no. It was too dangerous. Better to watch and wait. That  _ was _ his job, after all. Those Downstairs couldn’t fault him for that.

He needed to find the exact spells and incantations. He’d finished his search of all of the libraries and bookstores of London. All except one. The most important one, but he didn’t think he’d be welcome there anytime soon.

______________________

Sitting alone that night in the bookstore made Aziraphale sad. He lifted his head from reading the unfinished  _ Don Juan _ . That always left him sad as well, a story without an end. Misery loves company, he thought as he rocked in his chair. Aziraphale pouted to think he’d become such a cliche. 

He’d spent many nights alone in the back of his bookstore, reading by candlelight, but tonight, after seeing Crowley, he felt the ache much more as shadows cast across his pages.

He’d said awful things to Crowley. Hurtful words. And after Crowley had been so kind and spoke from his heart. He miracled the crumbs to feed the ducks, too! And how did he repay his friend? He’d called Crowley an enemy. 

He set aside Lord Byron’s book and closed his eyes. 

Maybe he should be feasting on William Blake’s poetry instead—he had learned the lessons of Blake’s “Poison Tree” long ago. He told his anger to his friend, and his anger ended, but what Blake didn’t reveal was that confession didn’t vanquish pain.

Aziraphale recalled the many nights he’d speak to Blake. The man was rather confused at first by the appearance of an angel. Blake had once proclaimed that God spoke to him. In actual fact, it had been Aziraphale. There were many who thought the man to be a bit touched. Not really. He had just listened to carefully to one angel’s innocence and another demon’s experiences. 

No matter, Crowley  _ was _ a demon. He was the original tempter. The one who had offered that apple bright in the Beginning. Wasn’t Crowley still tempting Aziraphale? That was the problem. That was always the problem. Crowley may have thought he offered mankind a choice, but really, he had offered them pain and suffering. No, Crowley couldn’t be trusted. Not really.

Yet thousands of years and thousands of good deeds told Aziraphale otherwise. Why, Aziraphale could write entire novels on all the times the demon had saved him. 

He’d thought of trying his own hand at putting pen to paper, but that would hardly be fair to men. An angel, writing? Bad enough he told Blake all those stories about angels and demons. 

And an angel consorting with a demon? To write that would be blasphemy. Aziraphale closed his eyes and bit his lip. 

To think, he’d almost decided put that trust in Crowley. He had been so close to giving him the Holy Water. But he knew he was being watched. He’d felt eyes upon him in the church. Someone knew Aziraphale was there and knew  _ why _ he was there. If that was the case, then Crowley was in deeper danger than Aziraphale had imagined. 

He’d left without it, and it was for the best.

Over the next days and weeks, he missed Crowley more and more, but he stubbornly told himself he wouldn’t get the Holy Water for him.

In the end, Aziraphale was afraid what Crowley might do with it. Giving Crowley the means to destroy himself? Why, Aziraphale couldn’t!

So he waited, hoping that Crowley would come to him. But the demon was just as stubborn. 

Still, Aziraphale kept his ear to the ground as to what the demon was doing. He worried about his friend. 

______________________

_ London 1941 _

Sleeping seemed the best course of action, or inaction. He did that a lot: sleeping away decades and coming out to see what the world was like after each long nap. Each time he woke, he found Aziraphale and followed him like a guardian angel. What a laugh, thought Crowley. Me, a demon, acting as a guardian angel to an actual angel. 

But Aziraphale tended to get into all sorts of trouble. Most times, Crowley got him out again with a quick miracle or two without the angel ever knowing. Best to do it that way. He needed to stay far from him to keep him safe.

During the second reform act, he removed Aziraphale from harm’s way at the riots in Hyde Park. At that same park during third reform act, the angel almost got himself brained and discorporated. Crowley shook his head. Why did the angel kept messing with reform? 

That was how Crowley knew that when he woke to a world at war for the second time that the angel would do all he could to stop the Nazis.

He kept a close eye on him and swore he wouldn’t step in unless it was absolutely necessary. 

He followed Aziraphale to the church. He’d done a lot of that over the years. 

The angel carried a stack of books inside. Crowley wondered what the angel’s plan might be. He certainly would never have intended to give them to the Nazis. They had to be merely bait—a way to tempt them. Oh, Aziraphale! His friend had learned much about temptation and double crossing over the millennia. Not that Crowley had ever double crossed Aziraphale. Ever. But the angel had witnessed Crowley doing it to others numerous times over the centuries. 

Ahhh. Aziraphale handed them the books. But they became testy because he didn’t have Agnes Nutter’s book. Crowley let out a sigh of relief when the Nazis settled for the prophecy books the angel had offered. It looked to Crowley as if all was going according to plan.

Even at that point, Crowley was hoping the angel could handle it. Crowley thought all was well when British Military Intelligence Agent Rose Montgomery entered, gun drawn. But instead of saving the day, she double crossed Aziraphale’s double cross. 

Damn! He had no choice. 

A painful decision. He had to...step in. 

“A church,” Crowley mumbled. “Why’d it have to be a church? Why couldn’t it be an abandoned building or a nice unconsecrated graveyard?”

He wouldn’t let Aziraphale be shot down in a church of all places! It wasn’t...dignified, or angelic. It was just a short walk on sacred ground. It would be like anyone else walking on burning coals. 

He hot-footed it down the aisle to Aziraphale, gritting his teeth. 

“The legendary Anthony J Crowley. A pleasure to meet you,” Miss Montgomery said. “So sad that we have to kill you.”

He hopped in place next to Aziraphale. “I thought a bit of demonic intervention was needed,” he whispered in the angel’s ear. 

He smiled at the men and Rose Montgomery. 

“Better run!” said Crowley. “Save yourselves. Countdown begins now, ‘cause bombs are a-dropping.”

“Not here,” said one of the Nazis.

“Oh, I think you may be mistaken,” Crowley said. He eyed the books. “Run or you’re dead.” With a wink, he whispered to Aziraphale, “Don’t worry, angel. You and what’s yours are safe with me.”

A high-pitched whistle from above, and the church exploded, fire raining in all directions, but Crowley kept them in a bubble of protection.

“My books,” Aziraphale. “Of course you saved my books.” 

He had to. As for the Nazis…

\---

Later that night, they shared glasses of wine in the backroom of Aziraphale’s bookstore.

“You can’t save me from myself,” Crowley said, leaning back in his chair.

“Who said I ever wanted to?” He took another drink. “My, this is good. Wherever did you get this?”

“You’ll never believe it! From the United States, Napa Valley to be precise. It’s called Zinfandel. Who would have thought the bloody Americans could produce something as rich as this wine? And one look at you tells me you want to save me from myself. You always do. Isn’t that what angels do?”

“No, it’s the other way around. You save me. You’ve always saved me. You just walked into a church, feet burning, and saved me,” Aziraphale said. “Don’t tell me that you don’t care, because you do.”

“You give me too much credit,” Crowley winked. “I had other reasons. I’d have no one to talk to if something happened to you. I lied when I said I had others to fraternize with. I don’t, not really. No one of interest. Everyone else is dull by comparison.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was…”

“Don’t say it!”

“Nice! And how is it that you always happen to be so close by? I think you may be stalking me.” Aziraphale batted his eyes at Crowley. Then winked.

“Why, thank you. I think.”

“Always I think, or at least I try to do it.”

Crowley leaned back, watching Aziraphale as he yawned.The angel had leaned forward and unfolded his wings. As he stretched, he fanned his wings along with his arms above his head. 

“You should make yourself more comfortable,” Aziraphale suggested.

“What? I am.”

“I mean, spread your wings! Live a little!” Aziraphale ruffled his feathers. 

Crowley didn’t know what possessed him to indulge in Aziraphale’s request. He pushed his dark raven wings forth and spread them.

Aziraphale blinked, staring at the finger-like wingtips.

“Oh, you have such lovely wings,” Aziraphale said innocently. “Black as night but they shine like the stars.”

Crowley felt his face heat up as he broadened his wings and gave two graceful flaps. How could an angel entice him so?

“They really are a wonder,” Aziraphale said as he stood. “May I?” His eyes shimmered as he looked down at Crowley for permission. His hands hovered near Crowley’s glossy feathers, fingers flexing.

Crowley nodded dumbly.

The angel practically beamed with delight as he touched the black plumage, which made Crowley feel all the more giddy and reckless. He spread them out over his head.

“You really should unfurl them move often, they’re magnificent. Powerful, yet elegant. They’re so like you.”

As their wings brushed together, a strange and wondrous sensation suffused Crowley.  _ Could this be desire? Love?  _ he wondered.  _ Was this the emotion that humans felt, wrote about at such lengths? _ Aziraphale had read Shakespeare’s sonnets to him. They had meant little then. Now, he understood. But shouldn’t he feel shocked at this bliss, this synchronicity that enveloped him and the object of his desire? 

And oh, he desired Aziraphale. He was surprised to realize that he was at peace with that knowledge. He wanted Aziraphale with him, not only intimately, but as an eternal being with both light and dark halves. He already knew how important the angel was to him, but until that moment, he hadn’t understood the depth of his feelings. He was an equal measure, his other half. Good and evil no longer mattered. At least, not for Crowley..

Crowley sighed as their wings trembled where they touched. 

“My,” said Aziraphale. “This certainly is stimulating.”

Aziraphale always had a way of understating a situation.

—————————-

As Crowley left the bookstore late that night, he kicked a pebble along the curb as he walked. He only heard the footfalls behind him when they were but yards behind him.

He got to his flat and up the stairs, but they followed him. No use shutting the door, Crowley thought. He took out a glass and poured some old vodka that he’d procured from a generous angel, then settled down on the sofa and waited for them to come inside.

The door creaked open, and long shadows filled his room.

“Hail Satan!” Hastur said.

“Yeah, hi,” Crowley answered.

“I knew wouldn’t repeat it.” Hastur sneered. “You don’t ever secure souls for our master.”

“I’ve secured more souls than you lot, tripled.” Crowley sighed. “What do you want?”

“What’s it like to know that his love is more dangerous to you than Holy Water?” ask Hastur.

“What kind of question is that?” Crowley asked.

“You’ve been consorting with the wrong types. It’s going to be the end of you, and that angel.”

“Hmm. Let me see...” said Crowley holding up the glass with two fingers. “More dangerous that this?”

Hastur wrinkled his nose and sneered. “What? You think I’m thirsty? I’m a demon. I don’t drink water.”

“It’s filled with Holy Water, you idiot.” 

“You’re lying.”

“I am not.”

While demons rarely bluff, they do lie, which is something that demons do often and with impunity. Being a most unusual demon, Crowley was, of course, a master of not only the lie but of the bluff. The secret was to convince oneself that what one was speaking was truth, which for a demon, was actually a lie, which in truth was transitory.

Not wanting to take the chance, Hastur stepped back. 

“He does you favours. We’ve seen what you’ve been doing. No demon should consort with an angel. Why...it’s wrong.”

“Of course it’s wrong. Isn’t that why I’m here? To do wrong?”

“That’s not the kind of wrong you should be doing!” 

“He’s easy to manipulate. Sometimes I have to do something in return. A foil to his action. But rest assured, I  _ am _ using him. You know I’ve always been a selfish being.”

“You don’t fool me, you flash bastard. I’ve seen you two together laughing and feeding ducks! What respectable demon feeds ducks! Next you’ll be tending rabbits and helping the homeless! Or worse, taking in orphans and lost kittens. Your time here is almost up,” he grinned wickedly. “And that Holy Water won’t stop all of us. Is that angel worth it?”

Hastur shrugged. But he decided now wasn’t the time to test to see if the flash bastard actually was insane enough to have Holy Water or his commitment to an earth-bound angel.

Hastur left without knowing which thing Crowley told him was the lie and which was the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Facts about Holy Water:
> 
> * It cleanses. The Greeks used Holy water to sanctify places and people.  
> * In Middle Ages it was kept locked up to keep from unauthorized magical practices. Witches used it in spells.   
> * Used as a conduit between the underworld and earth.  
> * Also used (supposedly) during Black Mass to parody the religious rite for a greater psychic impact.


	3. The Water

_ 430 BC Athens, Greece _

“YOU. YOU HAVE BEEN DOING MY JOB.”

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“THERE IS NOTHING FANCY ABOUT A PLAGUE.”

“I only meant that I didn’t expect to see you here. I waited around, but when you didn’t show, I made a start on the clean up.” 

Crowley hated being near Death. He’d cleaned up enough of it in the last days, taken plenty of souls down the River Styx. He didn’t think Death would mind.

“Sorry to step on your toes.”

“I HAVE NO TOES. AND I WOULD NEVER MISS THE PLAGUE OF ATHENS.”

“The complete absence fleshy phalanges aside, I’d’ve thought that the total loss of social mores, let alone the enormous number of deaths would’ve been enough to bring you  _ and _ Pestilence.”

“I HATE OWING ANYONE A FAVOUR. PESTILENCE WAS NOT NEEDED OR WANTED. NEITHER WERE YOU. DRINK THIS.” Death handed Crowley a vial of water.

“Before I do, what is it?”

“WATER FROM THE RIVER LETHE.”

The sleight of hand tricks Crowley learned from Aziraphale came in handy. He pocketed the vial for another time. 

That was how Crowley cheated Death.

**——————————-**

_ SoHo, London, Bookshop. September 1954 _

“No, that’s not for sale.” Aziraphale shook his head. It was tiring telling customers the same thing day in and day out. 

The woman sniffed at him.

“This is the fourth book I’ve enquired about. If you don’t intend to sell them, why have a bookstore at all?” she barked.

He admitted to himself that the shop was merely a place to keep his collection of books. He rarely sold them, but he liked people. He enjoyed sharing what he had, just not parting with them. His books were like his children: loved and coddled. 

He had, however, given a few away to deserving customers. Adoption, if you will. Why, only last week he’d lovingly handed over a first edition of Beatrix Potter’s  _ The Tale of Peter Rabbit _ to a Maggie O’Sullivan.

Aziraphale peered over his reading glasses and tapped his fingers on a volume of Kant’s  _ Metaphysics of Morals _ . Today he was distracted, though not by the cranky customer in front of him. Crowley was here, browsing through his stacks to borrow a few of his books.

“Not for research, for leisure,” Crowley had said. 

He didn’t believe it for one second.

What on Earth would Crowley want read for entertainment? Something with murder and mayhem, possibly. He’d already helped himself to the black tea Aziraphale made. He also added a little extra Jamaican rum that Aziraphale had stashed in the back room. 

“What about this book?” she said, waving a copy of  _ Pride and Prejudice _ in his face. 

It was one of the celebrated 1894 Peacock Editions. He supposed he could let it go. They haggled on a price as Aziraphale kept an ear turned to Crowley shuffling through shelves.

An hour later and two more cups of tea, Crowley brought an armload of books and set them on the counter next to Aziraphale.

“These aren’t fiction,” Aziraphale said. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Nothing caught my interest. But these! I think these will be a nice distraction.”

“Distraction from what? These books are unsettling.”

Most were dark magic and spell books. Aziraphale sighed as Crowley ignored him. Most likely it had to do with the Holy Water. Again.

“More tea?” Aziraphale asked.

“I’d rather move straight to the rum, if you don’t mind.” 

As they drank side-by-side in the back of the bookstore, neither one brought up the books Crowley selected or his reason for choosing them. 

But it was all Aziraphale thought of afterward. Why did Crowley need them? He recalled how the demon had tended his wings all those years ago and the pain he had soothed. The angel worried what Below might do Crowley if they had dared do  _ that _ to him. 

Taking Crowley back to Hell seemed most likely. The demons would want Crowley to suffer. Living in Hell? Crowley wanted no part of that. He’d rather end it all than go there. So, possibly ended by demons or Crowley himself. That was one reason why the angel hadn’t given in.

Unless Crowley had another answer from those books. But why hadn’t Crowley shared the information with him? He didn’t share much with him at all. He kept his heart close and shared no secret part of himself. 

“How do you really feel?” he said aloud to himself. “How do I feel?”

—————————

He’d been searching for the potion for a long while. Crowley found the recipe buried in the back of the bookstore, hidden between the shelves, volume 13 of  _ The Book of Mischief and Inexplicable Chaos _ . Chapter thirteen was the base for all other potions in which Holy Water was central. The potency of each was dependent on the holiness of the water. 

Crowley was certain any Holy Water he’d procure on his own wouldn’t be that holy, but it would have to do. All he needed were the other ingredients: 

  * Angel’s primary feather
  * Demon’s secondary feather
  * Angel’s eyelash
  * Serpent scales
  * Moon dust
  * Blood of a true Prophet



Most of these he could easily procure. Serpent scales? He hated transforming back into Crawly, but needs must. The feathers? Not so difficult. A few, however, would prove a challenge. 

_ ————————-- _

_ London, 1960 _

Crowley wondered why he just didn’t pay some alter boy a stack of porn magazines to get the Holy Water. It was a simpler solution. Except, alter boys were so sloppy. Always spilling things. He needed someone with steady hands. Someone who would seal it up and wipe down the bottle proper-like, someone as obsessive and crazy as himself. 

The two gents and a lady he hired to help him break into the church were almost as crazy. 

When Shadwell bopped into the heist, he asked if witchcraft was involved, Crowley said it wasn’t. Not technically, anyway. Crowley had looked through many spell books for ways to use the Holy Water, but that hardly made him a witch. He was a demon,  _ thank you very much _ . Yes, he was planning to make magic ink, but this Shadwell didn’t need to know that. 

When he approached Crowley to enlist him into the witchfinder army, Crowley saw some advantages and possible ways to make mischief. Not that he needed any validation from those Below, it was just damn fun. Crowley took him up on it. 

He was a little offended when asked about how many nipples he had. He almost told Shadwell “none,” just to fuck with him.

He hadn’t expected Aziraphale. He blinked twice to make certain it really was Aziraphale, waiting for him in his Bentley with a tartan thermos filled with Holy Water.

“I suppose I should thank you,” Crowley said, holding the thermos up. 

“That would be appropriate. And do be careful with that. I worry about what might happen to you if you’re not. It could destroy you.”

“Thank you. Don’t flip your lid, I’ll be very careful with it.” Crowley smiled and set the thermos between them. 

“Why ever would I do that? I won’t flip the lid, that would hurt you.”

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. “I haven’t seen you much at all since that crazy night at the bookstore. Maybe we could do that again sometime. We could have a picnic, or dine at the Ritz.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes fixed straight ahead as Crowley watched and waited.

“I can give you a lift, take you anywhere you want to go,” Crowley offered.

The angel reached for the door handle. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Aziraphale left him there.  _ He left him _ . Crowley watched him walk away in his rearview mirror before backing out and driving off to his flat. 

He spent the following days digging through the spellbooks that he’d thought would be the most useful. Shadwell would not have approved. 

————————

Aziraphale hated hurting Crowley. 

He took his time walking back to the bookstore. He needed the time to think. What he had said was true: Crowley was too fast. The more time he spent with the demon, the stronger the temptation. 

If he couldn’t give him his heart, at least he could give him the Holy Water. 

He’d made up his mind regarding Crowley as he unlocked the door to his bookstore when a beacon of light flashed from behind him, turning his doorway into daylight. 

“First you consume human food, then you fall in love with a demon!” Gabriel voiced echoed off the storefront, taunting Aziraphale. 

“I am not! In love with a demon, that is,” Aziraphale fired back. “And I like cocoa and pineapple. I won’t apologize.”

Gabriel stepped inside and looked up at the ceiling, closing his eyes. “It’s sad that you don’t realise this yourself. You love a demon.”

“There is nothing  _ to _ realise,” Aziraphale blurted out. “I am not  _ in love _ with him. I  _ do _ love him. Isn’t that what angels should do? Practice forgiveness and love thy neighbour? Or have you forgotten what love is?”

“It’s  _ you  _ who has forgotten what you are. What’s it like to know that your love is more dangerous than Holy Water?” 

Aziraphale turned around slowly to face Gabriel. He should feel panic, but all he felt was peace. “If you must know, it hurts,” Aziraphle said. “I have not forgotten what I am, and what I am is an angel. It is you who has forgotten.”

“You think I don’t know what love is?” Gabriel laughed and pressed into Aziraphale’s space. Too close for Aziraphale’s liking. 

“Love is unconditional. You only seem to know what love is not.” 

Gabriel stepped back, sniffed, then disappeared.

———————————--

_ SoHo, London, Crowley’s flat. September 1968 _

Finally they were on the landing. He didn't know what possessed him to rent the flat at the top of the stairs. Crowley shook the rain out of his hair as he opened the door. 

“So nice of you to invite me up,” said Aziraphale. “The dinner at the Ritz was perfect. I so love the brill and scallops, and the wine was divine!”

Crowley pushed the door open. It was the least he could do. He tried not to be too polite too often. 

“Thank, dear boy. I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing your new flat.” Aziraphale stepped inside and bounced on his toes. “This is nice. I see you’ve kept the chair!” 

“Yes, I couldn’t let that go. Red velvet, Queen of Hearts throne. As for dinner, it was the least I could do after you helped me with the Sterling Crisis.”

They both sat together on Crowley’s new white leather couch, sipping brandy. Not as good as what Aziraphale had stashed in the backroom of the bookstore, but Crowley knew the angel would appreciate it. 

“I had little to do with it except giving hefty donations to orphanages.”

Crowley raised a brow and his glass. 

“What’s this?” Aziraphale said, pointing to the television. 

Crowley immediately grabbed a magazine off of the coffee table in front of them and flashed it in front of Aziraphale’s face.

“That is the reason why I wanted you to come up to my flat! Do you know what that is? A magic picture box! And this magazine is the _ Radio Times.” _

_ “ _ What are all these?” Aziraphale picked up another magazine, and flipped through it.

_ “The Guide, _ the American version. And these are more of the same.” Crowley waved at broadcast magazines spread out on his coffee table.

“Whatever are you on about?” Aziraphale said. He picked one of the _ Radio Times _ up off the table and opened it.

“That’s not the question. It’s what they do!” Crowley said. He bounced about the room. 

“They predict what is on  _ that _ magic box called the telly! When shows will be on the telly AND if they are good or bad.”

“They predict the future?” Aziraphale said, flipping through the colourful book skeptically.

“Very accurately. These oracles predict the correct time and number that each appears on the magic box.” Crowley jumped on top of his white couch, waving his arms in excitement. “Channels! Each is a channel, which makes sense, since someone, somewhere must be channelling them somehow.” 

“Before this they did the same on the radio?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yes! It’s uncanny! Watch.” Crowley opened the  _ Radio Times _ to page 13. “Today, at this time it’s ‘Come Dancing,’ a dance competition.”

“Does it state who wins?”

“Of course not. What would be the fun in that?” Crowley flipped the telly on.

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open. No so much at the images, he’d seen a television before, but at the dancers.

“Amazing. How do they bend like that?” Aziraphale asked. “Do you think we could learn? Look! He’s twirling her. I haven’t danced since I learned the gavotte at the Ten Guineas Club with Oscar.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose as he looked at the angel skeptically. “You really can’t dance. Not even if you used your wings. I saw you with Oscar Wilde that night. Or did you forget?”

“How could I forget? He was so entertaining. But one doesn’t need to be able to dance to appreciate it, though I  _ can _ dance, and I don’t need my wings to do it.”

“I’m not from Missouri, but I still want you to show me.” Crowley snapped off the telly and tuned the radio to Van Morrison singing “Brown Eyed Girl.”

“What are you on about, not from Missouri? I’d think you’re from your own private Idaho.”

“Show. Me.” Crowley extended his arms, pointing to the floor where the angel could begin his gyrations. 

Aziraphale huffed then spread his wings.

“I thought you said you could do it without them?” Crowley said although inside he was ecstatic to see the wonders stretched out before him again. 

“Yes, but it’s so much easier this way.” Aziraphale began his contortions. 

“Um. Isn’t that the gavotte? Looks more like your being garrotted,” Crowley laughed. He did look cute with his wings and arms flapping and legs slapping, but it wasn’t any dance he’d do. “Get with the times! What about the Funky Chicken, the Monkey, or even the Jerk?”

“The Jerk?” Aziraphale stopped with wings spread. “You don’t need to insult me any further. Why ever would I be a jerk? Don’t forget that I’ve seen you dance at that club you took me to last month. You jerked all over the dance floor.” Aziraphale scrunched up his nose. “I don’t believe I’d want to do that.”

“Of course you would do that.” 

Crowley raised his eyebrow. The angel quit dancing, which was both a relief and disappointment to the demon.

“Another glass?” Aziraphale tempted. 

Crowley stood and tuned the radio to some old ballroom music. “Don’t mind if I do.” 

The angel poured them both another measure, sipped his own, then set his glass back on the table. 

“A waltz.” Aziraphale took a deep bow. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

“Why certainly,” said Crowley, and took his hand. They were terrible. They tripped across the floor and looked into each other’s eyes. 

Later they tried to rumba. It was catastrophic. They crushed each other’s toes, knocked over Crowley’s best chair, and spilled half a bottle of perfectly good wine on his rug, but they continued to dance. But after three bottles, they both thoroughly believed they were world champion ballroom dancers. 

And his flat was in a terrible shambles, not that Crowley cared. Being this close to Aziraphale was more intoxicating than the wine. He really shouldn’t be drunkenly nuzzling the angel’s neck or letting the angel press so close. But he hadn’t had this much fun since he’d convinced that flock of starlings to land on the minute hand of Big Ben and set back all of London five minutes. 

“Do you think we should sober up?” Aziraphale gasped. His arm tightened around Crowley’s waist. 

“Nah-h!” Crowley said. He wasn’t about to stop. True, he was stumbling, but Aziraphale was doing a fine job holding him upright. 

“Good. I didn’t think so either.” Aziraphale giggled and rolled his hips against Crowley.

Crowley was thoroughly enjoying these lowered inhibitions. 

____________

Aziraphale knew this drunken little game they’d been playing was dangerous, but with every bad footstep they’d taken, he enjoyed how reckless he felt. Leading Crowley around in his arms was liberating. He loved that the barrier Aziraphale had built between them broke down with the music and dance. 

Aziraphale knew he would be crossing the celestial line, but he simply had to kiss Crowley’s lips to see if they tasted of wine. As he twirled Crowley around and dipped the demon down to the floor, lips met. It was a comfort to finally press his lips to the demon’s waiting mouth. 

What temptation, and with what ease those lips parted! Aziraphale shivered as Crowley’s tongue slithered around deliciously inside his mouth. What a glory and what a waste—all this time he should have known that Crowley tasted of ambrosia! 

His drunken arms and legs could only hold Crowley for so long. With a crash, they both fell to the floor. He tumbled on top of the demon, lips only a breath apart. 

“Here! Your mouth!” Aziraphale ordered. “I need it back!”

Aziraphale was relieved as Crowley obliged, open-mouthed. He was happy and dizzy as they rolled on the floor. 

“I just swept it,” Crowley said, between gasps. 

“The place is immaculate.”

“Mmm. Immaculate is not a word I like to use. Swings too close to immaculate conception.”

“You are naughty. And still drunk.” 

“I like naughty and drunk. Give me another kiss. This is  _ far _ better than striking terror in innocents or setting fire to villages,” Crowley said.

They pressed lips together and both moaned. 

Aziraphale considered what he’d said. _ My, my. Jests about conception (not that something like that could ever happen) and pillaging him (he was naughty) and their befuddled state!  _ It was most difficult to reason with his tongue wickedly swirling inside his mouth. 

He flopped over on his back and away from the enticing mouth, keeping his wings as much out of the way as possible. A few inches separated them.

“That’s it? I’d think I should be on a much higher plane, not akin to such base metaphors. To me, you are a flaming sword.”

Crowley followed, pressed closer, his shoulder bumping the angel’s shoulder. “I don’t like that metaphor. You gave it away.” 

It was a bit unfair the way Crowley wings coaxed and toyed with Aziraphale’s above them. 

“I would never give you away,” Aziraphale said. “How about this: you are a wonder. You are like moving pictures displayed inside that magic box.”

“But that’s a simile,” Crowley pointed out. He rolled on to his side and brushed a hand over one of the angel’s cheeks.

“You are a wonder, but you can also be a bit cranky,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Cranky? For that I shall extract one eyelash.” With a swift movement, Crowley plucked a lash out. 

“Ouch! What do you think you’re doing!” Aziraphale rubbed his eye.

“Collecting.”

“Pieces of me?” he asked aghast.

“You could say that.” 

“I don’t know if I should be flattered or...it’s not for one of those potions?”

“Well, yes.” Crowley crossed his long legs and stretched against Aziraphale on the floor. “Watching telly is certainly better than dancing, unless I’m dancing with you.” 

Aziraphale smiled sweetly at him. “You are such a tease, my boy.”

“Me? I am mere simpleton. That coy smile and innocent angel eyes? You are the Gypsy Rose Lee of teases.” 

Aziraphale began to laugh and threw back his head with a thud against the floor. Crowley laughed along next to him on the floor. 

“It’s not polite to laugh when others are in pain,” Aziraphale said, blinking his eyes. 

“There’s something I need to tell you about the magic box. I’m sorry, Crowley, but it’s not magic. Those Radio Times magazines have been around almost since radio began. The people printing them know the schedule of those playing the music and magic pictures. They aren’t predicting them.”

“I knew that.”

“You did not.”

“Then kiss me again to make it better.”

In the winding river they called Life, Aziraphale kissed him again. And again. And again. In fact, he kissed him until both of their mouths were so sore they could kiss no more. 

On the floor side-by-side with wings fluttering, Aziraphale took the demon’s hand and squeezed it.

"If they knew, they would destroy you," Crowley whispered.

“No, Crowley. It’s not me they would destroy. It’s you. My love is more dangerous to you than the Holy Water I gave you.”

Crowley head jerked, staring at Aziraphale. “Where did you hear that?”

Aziraphale blinked. “From Gabriel. Why?”

“It’s word for word what Hastur said to me.”

Aziraphale frowned and bit his lip. “You think they’re working together?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ve suspected as much since the day they nailed me to your door.”

\---------------------

Crowley picked up the clutter after the angel left. As he swept his floor, black and white feathers flew about from their little tryst on the floor. He collected them reverently along with Aziraphale’s blond hairs and placed them in a special gold box with the other items needed for the ink.

He climbed into his bed and stared at his ceiling. He’d done it now. He’d committed himself by kissing the angel. 

Kissing and pulling eyelashes! He rolled on to his side. No. That wasn’t true. He’d committed himself to the angel long before that. Long before.

He flopped onto his stomach and went to sleep.

He woke a few hours later to Hastur’s stench.

“What do you want  _ now _ ?” Crowley moaned. He rolled over and climbed out of bed. He glanced around to find that Hastur had come alone. “I know the game you’re playing. It’s ironic that you’re conspiring with those Upstairs to take me down because I am.”

“It’s despicable— associating with an angel. You seem to enjoy it! Disgusting!”

Crowley pulled at his hair as he walked into his living room with Hastur following on his heels. 

Crowley motioned to the telly, and pulled the knob and turn the set on. “There.” 

Light filled the room with images on the screen. Hastur’s eyes grew wide. He cautiously stepped closer. Crowley changed the channel, and Hastur jumped back and frowned at it. 

“What is that?” 

“A magic box created by humans.. They’re growing more and more powerful.”

“Just moving pictures of light. That proves nothing.” 

“But this does,” Crowley said. He threw  _ the Radio Times _ at him. Hastur caught it and stared down at the pages blankly.

“Humans can now predict the future. If you don’t believe me, check the times in that little book to what appears on the box. They are exact to. The. Minute!” Crowley smiled wickedly at Hastur. “I think that’s a bit of knowledge that the Dark Lord would be interested in. You could be the one to share it with him. I was planning to tell him myself, but I’d be willing to give you the honour  _ if _ you drop this whole angel and demon business.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“You shouldn’t. I don’t trust you either.” Crowley reached to take the Radio Times from Hastur, but the demon clutched it tightly and refused to let it go.

“Not so fast,” said Hastur. “I’ll need that magic box.”

Crowley frowned. He hated to give it up, but it was for the best. When Hastur found out Crowley was tricking him, he’d be angrier than ever, but at least that would give Crowley more time to make the potion.


	4. The Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter of love. Be prepared for a bit of heart break and happiness.

_ London, NHS Blood donation bank, July 1969 _

“Yes. And your name, just to confirm.. You are Sebastian Prophet?” asked the first nurse with clipboard in her hand.

“Yes, that’s my name.”

The second, a robust blond, skillfully began the IV for the donation. 

“You’re very good at that,” the gentleman said, winking at the blond nurse.

“Why, thank you,” said Aziraphale. She liked the nurse’s uniform well enough. A bit stiff, but Crowley looked so much better in hers with those shapely legs and trim waist. She should wear white more often.

“I was surprised to get the call that my blood was needed. It’s not an unusual type,” said the gentleman.

“Oh, but it is,” Crowley said. Her hair was neatly combed into a bun and pinned under her nurse’s cap. She straightened out her blouse with one hand while tapping her biro against the clipboard with the other. “Your blood is very rare indeed. A special quality that few others have. I believe it’s characteristic of the Prophet line only. You’ll be saving one of your own through this thoughtful donation.”

“I didn’t know that!” he said. “Who is it?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential,” nurse Crowley said. “But know that it’s someone of importance.”

“Of importance? I always knew! I always told Mildred I descended from someone with status.”

“Of course you are,” said Aziraphale. “You’re a Prophet!”

—————-

_ Cape Kennedy, Florida, September 1969 _

Popping into the air force base had been a bitch. Crowley didn’t mind the oppressive heat at all, or the salty taste of the ocean on the back of this tongue. It was the clinging humidity that wrapped around and dampened his skin he detested. The launch pads and tarmac had been confusing at first. While Crowley felt he looked rather at home (and, a touch dashing) in uniform, he was miffed that he was forced to do something different with his hair. He wasn’t sure if he liked it this short.

As for the uniform, he didn’t make the same mistake he made long ago of choosing too high a rank to strut around in. Even as part of Satan’s army, he hadn’t recognized rank much, if at all. He abhorred Hell’s idiocy of hierarchy and he’d never bothered to learn a thing about Man’s ranks. How could he have possibly known they’re only been few five star Field Marshals? 

Two-stars at Cape Kennedy was enough to get an escort. He had an airman assisting him with a jeep. He’d never mistake of having five stars ever again. He didn’t intend to be sent to “holding area” ever again. 

“Exactly where are the lunar samples stored, Airman Collins?” Crowley asked in his very best Southern accent. He tried not to squirm, but the jeep’s seat was too damn hard.

“They’re securely stored, sir. Only selected officers with clearance know the locations. But there are some sealed up and on display for the public.”

“Where might those be?”

The airman gave Crowley an odd look. “The NASA Space Center, sir.”

“Take me there.”

“Um. We are there, sir. It’s right in front of us.”

“Excellent,” Crowley said. He looked up at the impressive building before he climbed out of the jeep. “How does the man on the moon get a haircut?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Major General Crowley.”

“He eclipse it.” 

“Very funny, sir.” The airman barked out an artificial laugh. 

Not at all convincing. If he were actually a Major General, he might’ve taken offense.

“And where might this exhibit be inside?” Crowley asked.

“Follow me, sir. If I can’t locate it, we can find someone who can show you.”

As they entered the Center, people kept saluting. Crowley felt obliged to salute back. His hand was beginning to get stiff, and he couldn’t help but snarl each time he did it.

“How does an astronaut on the moon tell another astronaut that he’s sorry?” Crowley asked Airman Collins. 

“I don’t know, Major General. How does an astronaut tell another astronaut he’s sorry?”

“He Apollo-gizes.”

“That’s very funny, sir.” This time he actually laughed. The airman stopped in front of a thick glass case where moon rocks, dust, and other artifacts from various missions were on display. ”This is it.” 

“I can take it from here, Collins.” Crowley said, waving the airman away. “I’d like some time alone with the samples.”

The airman squinted at him over his shoulder. “Yes, sir.”

Not many people around. Waving his arm through the case was tricky. Even though it was made to look like a lunar surface, it was mostly made of plaster and plastic. Crowley only took a small portion of the moon dust. Not nearly enough to be missed. And he took a chunk of rock for Aziraphale. He had to miracle away the mess he made. 

He studied the display case before he left to make sure he’d left it intact and in order.

He turned to leave. Now he could say then that he’d given the angel the moon—or at least a little piece of it. 

Behind him a young mother and her son walk up to the exhibit.

“Oh, look mommy! I told you the moon had crows. There’s a black feather there, see?”

—————

_ London, Aziraphale’s Bookstore January 1970 _

It was a quiet night in the bookstore. In the candlelight, Crowley and Aziraphale relaxed in the backroom, sipping wine and playing Cluedo. 

“I almost feel bad about telling Mr. Prophet he came from a titled lineage,” said Aziraphale.

“Bahh. Don’t! It made him happy. And now we have the blood of a prophet.”

“How is this for a prophecy? The crime was committed by Colonel Mustard in the lounge with a dagger,” Aziraphale said. 

Bang! Bang! Their expected guests had arrived.

“Can’t they read we’re closed?” Aziraphale asked. 

“They don’t care,” said Crowley, downing the last of his wine. He set the glass down and spun it around on the table. 

“I should open it. I’d really hate it if they broke down my door,” said Aziraphale with crossed arms. 

Crowley was undecided. Aziraphale was clearly about to win at Cluedo. He couldn’t have that. 

“I suppose the extra defences should hold them a few more minutes,” Aziraphale said. 

“No sense in having to replace the door though,” Crowley said, standing slowly and stretching. 

“Very well. But it’s only because you knew I was about to win.”

The banging grew louder. Crowley stopped not far from the entrance and crossed his arms with Aziraphale stepping in front of him about to unlock the door. But a crack of thunder prompted him to leap away just as the front door flew off its hinges, careening across the room and slamming into a bookcase. 

Outside, it began to snow. 

Hastur stood in the doorway, legs apart. Snowflakes stuck to his shoulders. With a look of disgust, he brushed it off. Ligur leered at him, a wall of burning brimstone behind them, shaking the snow from his head. 

“You’d think it would melt faster. No matter. Step aside, angel. We’re here to collect Crowley,” Hastur growled out.

Aziraphale locked his legs and crossed his arms. “You will not.”

“Oh, but I will angel. Don’t tempt me. I’d love to nail you to the bookcases,” Hastur snarled.

“You touch him, and I will end you,” Crowley barked back.

“You tricked me,” Hastur shouted. He was on his toes and jabbing his finger at Crowley. “I should have known it was a trick!”

Crowley shrugged, taking Aziraphale’s arm and pulling him backwards. “You got my telly. Seemed like a fair deal to me. Solid state, maple cabinet and full colour.”

“He laughed at me!” Hastur roared.

“Not for the first time. And I’m sure the Dark Lord will again.” 

Ligur scowled at Crowley, swinging a fiery set of manacles like a lasso above his head. Aziraphale eyes narrowed in defiance at the demon.

“We came to take you back,” Ligur hissed. 

“Is that an order or is this something you two are doing on your own time?” Crowley asked, continuing to guide Aziraphale backward. 

“I’ve always said that you enjoy your job far too much,” Crowley said. “Those look painful, by the way.”

“They won’t hurt. Much. It’s what we intend ta’ do ta’ ya’ after...but these should hold ya’,” Ligur lisped. 

"I must warn you. Stay where you are.” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and looked down at the floor. “It’s not safe for you to enter much further.”

“You can’t tell me what ta’ do!” Ligur snapped.

“I most certain can. It’s my bookstore, and Crowley is not going anywhere in those frightful things. I will now allow you to harm him.”

“Ya’ won’t allow us? Who are you? What are you going to do ta’ us, angel?” Ligur barked out a laugh.

“I am prepared to lick some serious demon arse." 

“Ah, that’s kick arse,” smirked Crowley. He shrugged and sighed. He leaned in closer to Aziraphale. “If you’re going to lick any demon’s arse, it’s going to be mine,” he whispered.

Ligur sneered. “Maybe some other time, boys. We need ta’ take care of the problem at hand. And the problem is him!” He clanked the flaming manaces and began to step around Hastur.

“Yeah, the flash bastard. Tsk, tsk. You shoulda known better,” said Hastur, pointing to Aziraphale. “It’s one thing ta’  _ tempt _ him, it’s another to be taken in by him.”

Ligur stepped over the line. Literally. The one Aziraphale had helped Crowley draw on the floor. Ligur’s deafening roar was the scream only demon’s make: straight from Hell, a piercing, air raid siren blast. Ligur leapt back. Steam hissed as he shook his foot in the air. An acrid stench filled the room—the soles of his boots smoldering, bubbling, oozing.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” said Aziraphale, holding his nose. “There’s a consecrated magic circle of protection around this part of the bookstore.” 

“I wouldn’t step any further,” said Crowley.

“I drew it with Holy Water and blessed it,” added Aziraphale. “The room is booby trapped,” Aziraphale crowed, bouncing on his heels. “It was my idea.”

“Now go away and leave us alone,” said Crowley, shooing them with his hands.

“But he’s inside the circle!” shouted Ligur, pointed at Crowley. “How? How do you get in and out?”

“I’m not telling!” said Crowley. 

“What are you?” huffed Ligur over his shoulder before they both disappeared in a cloud of sulphur.

“How do you stand that? The smell is horrible!” Aziraphale complained. 

Crowley waved his arms and the stench was no longer. Left behind was the scent of lavender and lilacs. 

“I’m afraid, dear boy, that the next time they won’t be so easily deterred.” Aziraphale plopped down in his chair at his desk. 

Crowley stepped next to him. He frowned. 

Aziraphale pulled out his handkerchief and patted his brow. “You need some other protection. I worry about you at your flat, I don’t think that plant mister you have is safe for you to use. What if it leaked on you? You need something else. What about those potions you’ve been working on?”

Crowley sat down on the desk in front of him. “I have a few ideas using the magic ink,” His wicked grin made the angel blush.

“Hmm. First a piece of the moon and now love letters? Oh, my dear Crowley…”

He bent down and kissed the angel’s soft lips. So soft, so supple. And they opened  _ so _ willingly. 

His demon heart thumped in his chest. He’d wanted Aziraphale for longer than he could remember. He was in a human form, with human tastes, human wants, human desires. And he desired Aziraphale. 

He leaned forward and let his hands caress the angel’s face. Then slowly, ever slowly inched his lips to the angels. Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered shut. Crowley swallowed the angel’s moan— a moan as delectable as the crêpe suzette the angel risked his life for all those years ago at the Bastille. This taste was by far the more dangerous of the two.

Crowley knew this was their time. They had to take it now before they had no more. Even if they never remembered these moments, Crowley hoped that a part of what they were to each other might remain.

He did what he had never dared to do before. He touched the angel. Between his legs. 

Aziraphale moaned and wrapped his arms around Crowley. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Aziraphale said.

“How would you hurt me? Only if you tell me I don’t matter to you, that you don’t feel for me what I feel for you.” Crowley brushed back the angel’s hair with his hands.

They both began to lift off the floor.

“No, dear boy. I mean in here, with all the Holy Water around, you might get hurt,” he whispered into Crowley’s ear. He pushed them to the ceiling and POOF! They were out under the London sky with the bookshop below them.

Aziraphale’s white owl wings spread as they whooshed up into the night. The sounds of the city with Azirphale’s arms wrapped around him would haunt Crowley’s heart long after. 

As the buildings below grew smaller and smaller, Crowley opened his own dark raven wings. He looked at the stars above. He thought that the snow blowing around them looked like stardust.

“There’s a place up for us up there, if you want,” Crowley whispered. “I made a potion for us. It will take us away from here. Pick a star.”

“We can’t leave Earth. Think of the people. They need us _ both _ ,” Aziraphale said, even as they soared higher still.

Despite the rejection of his idea to leave the Earth entirely, Crowley gleaned the meaning of “both” behind his dear friend’s words. It meant together, not matter what came.

The angel threw his head back, inviting Crowley to kiss his neck. They soared up as one, rising into the glistening snow. Snowflakes stuck to his lashes and their wings. The night clouds shimmered where they covered the new moon. In the haze of the clouds, they were hidden even to each other. They rolled against the cool currents, gliding on them. Aziraphale’s owl-white wings whispered to them both.

“If we intend to do this properly, we have far too much on,” Crowley announced.

With a laugh Aziraphale shouted, “Begone clothes!” 

Naked in the moonlit clouds, they merged together. Aziraphale broke inside the demon in a rush of heat and cold. With every thrust they spun around. Wings touching, coaxing, enticing. They broke above the glistening clouds, climbing ever higher. 

The angel was such a contradiction of light and dark, up and down, in and out. Crowley gasped as the angel thrust deeper inside him. He felt clean, clear—like an angel again. He had Crowley mewling and crying out words and thoughts and feelings he never knew existed within himself.

“Oh!” Aziraphale cried out. Aziraphale tucked his wings around them tight, and squeezed them close as they began to free-fall.

The French called it le petite mort, and Crowley had never understood until he was spinning wildly toward the earth. When he’d fallen before, it was nothing like this. This was bliss, this was salvation. He came as they fell, as did the angel. 

It’s not the fall that kills you... It’s the landing.

But it didn’t. Aziraphale wings spread out at the last moment. They hovered above Crowley’s flat roof with London still buzzing beneath them. They filtered through the roof in a mist, down, down, landing with a sigh on the demon’s bed.

“Don’t ever say I don’t know how to treat a lady right,” Aziraphale said. He brushed his lover’s long red locks out of his face.

“Nah! Never.”

——————————--

_ London, Aziraphale’s Bookstore January 1970 _

Crowley held Aziraphale in his arms, the angel’s head tucked under his chin.

“We’re in a bind. Gabriel is so angry,” Aziraphale said. “I’m certain we will be having a visit from him soon. The Holy Water won’t work to stop him. Is there anything in the research you’ve been doing that can help us?”

“Other than leaving this world? Nothing. We can, you know.”

“We’d be leaving them behind. We can’t do that. Think of what happened with the Ark! All those children.”

Crowley nodded. “I thought of sanctifying myself. I thought if I made myself into a respectable angel again, that might work, but then I wouldn’t be me in the end.”

“That’s it then?” Aziraphale said, and kissed Crowley’s nose. “We’ve nothing left. We can’t give up.”

“There is one other option.”

“Yes?”

Crowley closed his eyes and swallowed. He held the angel tighter.

“I can make it so that everyone forgets,” Crowley said. His voice sounded hollow. “We could do that—I have all that’s needed to do it.” Including the moon dust, Crowley thought, but Aziraphale didn’t need to know all the particulars. 

“Forget? How would that even work? It’s Holy Water not water from the River Lethe…” said Aziraphale. “And that’s long gone. All dried up.”

“Actually...if I add just one drop from the River Lethe, it will work.”

“But you don’t  _ have _ a drop.” Aziraphale paused. He leaned back a bit to look into Crowley’s face. “Do you?”

“Most of it evaporated long ago, but I have enough.”

Aziraphale gaped at him.

“I got it from Death. It was a hard sell, but you know me,” Crowley fibbed.

“How would it work exactly?”

“I’d add the remaining ingredient, then recite an incantation. Everyone would forget, but it can only be one thing.”

“One thing? What one thing would you make everyone forget?”

“The only thing that would work was if we never knew each other. That we never met. That we never became. Friends.”

“But if it worked, we’d...” Tears clouded Aziraphale’s eyes, and Crowley felt his own well up.

“Never have this? Never remember this?” Crowley wiped the tears from Aziraphale’s face and his own and nodded. “But we’d be safe. You’d be safe.”

“No, you can’t! We can’t.”

Crowley wondered if that wouldn’t be for the best. Over the centuries, he’d tainted and tempted Aziraphale away from what was Good. It would have never happened without Crowley’s influence. Crowley constantly justified his reasons for doing it. It had nothing to do with what they wanted Downstairs and everything to do with what Crowley wanted. Frankly, he liked Aziraphale as more of a bastard and not some goody-goody like the angels Upstairs. But to right this wrong and make it go away, Aziraphale needed to never be swayed by Crowley again. 

With no past together, they had no future. It was for the best. He knew that Aziraphale would never agree to it. It was up to him.

————————-

_ London, Crowley’s Flat, February 1970 _

Crowley took the pen. The solution was as painful as the cure.

He closed his eyes and scribbled with the ink he had made through hours of anguish. His handwriting didn’t seem his own: “The Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate and Demon Anthony J. Crowley, Serpent of Eden not now nor ever have conspired, fraternized, or ever been friends.” He folded it twice with tears in his eyes.

He kissed it, then said the remainder of the incantation.

And there was no Aziraphale in the Garden nor at the Ark nor the Crusades. Only an angel named Raphael, an archangel who healed the poor, an archangel Crawly never knew.

——————————-

_ London, A Bookstore February 1973 _

That morning while he was cleaning, Raphael found a jacket. He didn’t recall any recent customers slim enough to wear the leather coat. 

The bell chimed and a man came through his door, missing his coat. The archangel stood there, coat dangling from his fingertips. He felt as if this coat belonged to this man. He was tall and slim, long fire-red hair tied in neat ponytail.

The way he sauntered up to him, it was like he belonged in this place. Upon closer inspection, Raphael saw the man standing before him for what he was.

“Hello, angel,” Crawley said. 

“I’m sorry, demon. Do I know you?”

Crawly’s answer was a slow smile as he reached into the pocket of the leather jacket still being held by the angel. He pulled out his hand and between his fingers he held a white feather.

“It had Holy Water on it. It’s long since evaporated, but the spell on it was still strong. I’m not sure what it does exactly, but it helped me remember something. Something very important. Open your hand.”

Raphael didn’t know why he did it, but something in the demon’s gaze made him open his hand and take the feather.

The demon dropped it. It floated delicately down into his palm. 

With a jolt, his hand grasped it tight in his fist. He closed his eyes just as tightly.

Aziraphale opened them.

Crowley smiled. “Surprise! It’s me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who read this. Comments and Kudos are welcome and appreciated, AND please give thanks to the artist as well!
> 
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**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Here’s some explanation on facts and tidbits on the wings for Crowley and Aziraphale:
> 
> My beta Kongriket helped me so much deciding a focus for this story. In one of our first conversations on Tumblr, she noted both ravens and owls have a lot of cultural similarities and parallels. It was why we chose those wings for our demon and angel.
> 
> “They’re [owls and ravens] both psychopomps [soul guides],” she wrote. “Both tend to be associated with death and evil, but also knowledge and innovation." I found her points fascinating, and it prompted me to do a lot of digging on my own. 
> 
> Kongeriket and I agreed that owl wings would be perfect of Aziraphale because of the myths regarding owls in so many cultures. It was pure luck that I found that it was common to nail owls to doors to ward off spirits, which prompted the opening of this story--a sacrilegious twist on the idea. Added bonus that it also gives Crowley the opportunity to heal him and get in that angst, hurt, and comfort we all love.
> 
> If you’ve ever read the novel _Bless Me, Ultima_ by Rudolfo Anaya, you know the significance of the owl in the work: it’s symbolic of Ultima’s life force and the power of her religious mysticism. The owl protects the protagonist, Antonio, from harm with its magical, protective power. When searching for a title, I thought I’d give a nod to the story.


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